I stare blankly at the moon,
half-veiled by clouds and tears.
Far from homeland,
while heavy rain shrouds wounds.
My soul wanders, seeking rest,
yearning for the finest wine and cheese.
Yet sorrow shrouds my soul,
has made my soul cease,
leaving my emotions adrift,
far away in an unknown place.
Questioning fate, is there truly any peace?

My mother told me
I was a fool to go after you,
but I thought it poetic,
to be foolish for you.

Thought it was romantic
to rush and jump in
much too fast,
thought it was fun to be dragged.

Thought it was endearing
to love
someone who didn't love back,
thought it'd be fun to see,
how a bad idea would end,
so I slipped you
an invitation,
sent it as a joke,
but then you showed up,
and I don't even know.

So go ahead and choke me,
I'll cry on my birthday,
dreaming of faraway.
I feel like I'm drowning,
I feel like I'm sinking,
deeper and deeper
into a bad something.
I should start listening.

Shouldn't have had you at my party,
wouldn't have stopped me from falling,
wouldn't have stopped me from sinking,
wouldn't keep me listening,
but maybe my mascara wouldn't smudge,
even if my heart wouldn't budge,
I could have cried some other day.

Other than my birthday.
Other than my party,
could've cried in the backseat,
of a random taxi,
on a random Tuesday.
could have ate my feelings away
right beside a driver who didn't even know me.

But I didn't cry in a taxi,
didn't cry in the backseat,
I cried in the bathroom,
at the big venue,
I messed up my makeup,
we didn't even break-up,
we aren't even dating,
so why did it matter,
why did my baby heart shatter
on my birthday?

Over nothing?

Oh why did I have to cry
on my birthday?

If tears were red,
they'd have seen —
my white pillow stained by morning,
red marks blooming on the bedsheet,
on my face,
on my shirt.
My eyes, still puffy,
still red
from the bleeding of the night before —
not from wounds,
but from weeping.
Eyes not meant to bleed,
yet they did.

And still,
no one noticed
the colourless blood I’ve spilled.

sadness comes in droplets.
from the sky, from your eyes, they fall.
over and over, time and time again.
wetting the ground, streaking your face
until a puddle grows into a sea.

The most misunderstood, misfelt, and underrated feeling.
Water flowing from eyes can never be fake.
It could be from happiness,
Can be with grief,
Can be out of jealous,
And can be through overwhelm.

The reason may be anything,
But they can never be fake.
They hold valuable expressions
Which words in dictionary too fail.

They carry the pain,
Unexpressed emotions,
And more.

Tears are misunderstood
For being weak, sensitive, and over-emotional.
But they are not in true sense.
One can never judge the value of tears.

They make heavy hearts lighter.
Hidden suffers heal.
They make expressions visible.
Make the situation intact.

Never look low of tears,
And the one who lets them flow freely,
Than to submerged them fearing judgements.

What is this feeling in my stomach?
The butterflies flutter nonstop—I can hear their wings beating beneath my skin.
I feel them shift from side to side,
Claiming what little remains of me.

What is it?
What is this bitter taste rising through my throat, resting on my tongue?
Why can’t I hear the butterflies anymore?
Why do I still feel this?

My mouth opens, and all I spit is blood and glass.
The sour bile of what the butterflies once were grows thick—and I can do nothing.
“Spit them out, regurgitate them, let them go!”
I can’t.

I press my chest, and slowly my arms bind themselves around my belly,
Cradle of cutting kisses—kisses that now hurt,
And no longer heal the way they used to.

I rise from mourning, only to fall again, and the butterflies begin to flutter once more,
But they no longer beat like drums or echo like thunder.
They don’t crash against my walls or hide in my corners…
They are there, but not alive.

They try to climb.
I feel them fighting each other, pushing for space up my esophagus—
Once a path for all things good,
Now a tunnel for all things painful.
I hear them scream; their tiny voices pierce my eardrums and shake my bones.

They want out.

And I understand them well:
What good is a body that dances among broken hearts?
What use are shards beneath my feet,
Reminding me how little I’ve felt?
What comfort is the weeping of a soul grown weary?
What joy lies in the bottomless hollow of a body fed by illusions?
They were made for the sun—for joy, for love—
And all I can offer is an umbrella
For the relentless rain storming inside me.
Cold, decaying rain that stains the walls and soils my shoes, instead of washing them clean.

They’re almost free—
About to escape.
But I swallow them down once more,
Just as I’ve swallowed the bile of melancholy,
Just as I’ve swallowed the tears that swore, they would soften the blades of my sharp-edged heart.

I feel them sink slowly,
Their wings now still—they’ve accepted their fate.
I don’t want to let them go,
Because they’re all I have left.
They’re all I have of what once was pain.
They’re all I have of what once was passion…

They’re all I have of what once was love.

I wish I could cry it out
but instead I cry inside
There tears are flowing
and they drown my mind.

L.C.

I laugh—
Every time I’m on the edge of breaking.
When tears slip down,
Uninvited,
From eyes that were never meant to spill them.

I laugh with all I’ve got,
As if the sound can drown the ache—
As if pretending
Can make the pain behave.

I wear a smile like armor,
A mask of joy the world applauds.
But beneath it all—
Is a soul quietly screaming,
Begging to be held,
To be heard.

To be told:
It’s okay to cry.
It’s not weakness to feel.
It’s not a sin to break

Warm and full
My bubbly, baptismal vessel
Carries casked vanilla notes in its steam
A pillow of air
Keeps me from drowning
My ******* float and lift away
Brackish water covering near the totality of my body
Changes within me and its salinity
As each teardrop rolls into the mixture,
I struggle less to stay afloat

Cradled in my
old broken holder,
your edges once
smooth—now all frayed;
Covered in grey
thick paint,
with pleading eyes,
you wait, to be
held in my
fragile
fingers.
But still
you kept your
lips stitched
with cobwebs.
Is that because,
a single touch of
yours, would scratch
the new-born
paper? Brush